My initial dream was so 80s. I wanted to be the class clown for a while, dress weird - mainly in black -, paint my eyes and nails, and then, go out there into the world and meet a monster that would have loved me and that I would have loved back.
We would have exchanged blood, snakes, scratches and bites. She would have called me her favorite abomination. I would have called her my worst nightmare and I would have totally French kissed her under a full moon.
We would have got married in a crypt somewhere in Paris on Halloween surrounded by horrendous goons - and then, we would have walked the streets to find an abandoned Manor where to live together until flesh rotted off our bones.
Oh. And also, we would have procreated.
We would have bred a flock of abnormalities that we would have named and loved no matter how many legs they had. I wanted at least two girls and a Cyclops. We would have been this super sexy dark couple totally into each other after three kids and many decades, thinking of nothing better than meeting each other again the second we would have raised from our coffins.
I would have spent my days in my silk pajamas writing books nobody really wanted to read, and at night, we would have gone out together looking for new victims to murder and then hook up to dry in the attic - and life would have been a permanent pumpkin.
I didn’t realize the new millennium would be a loveless place where horror morphed into torture porn overnight.
Love went out of fashion the second they hooked up the first Wi-Fi hotspots.
Frankenstein is still looking for a bride, most of the time – but his bride is not looking for a serious relationship anymore. She’s just been electrified into existence, and immediately got herself a smartphone, went on Facebook and told her creator she wants to play the field and focus on her career before “getting all tied up with stuff”. She is currently heading to a club where she’s been told she could get wasted and hook-up with other random creatures who promised to slice her good.
Sexiness has become a single night concept. No more Manors. No more kids. No more witty dialogues. And Uncle Fester has been accused of raping Thing and posting the video on YouTube.
Morticia wants a divorce and she wants to sleep with her divorce lawyer while his sexy assistant watches. Gomez spends too much time on alternative-hookups.com to see if there’s someone out there with a full sleeve of tattoos that would tango better.
But my dream is not entirely lost. I’m still spending my days in my silk pajamas writing books nobody really wants to read – and at night after too much red wine for dinner, I hang out my window howling at the moon, wishing there was someone with me to go out there looking for more victims.